


Last Rose of Summer (in G minor)

by xxignoredxx



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 13:29:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/598290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxignoredxx/pseuds/xxignoredxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, how John ruins his favourite jumper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Rose of Summer (in G minor)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [all_my_rage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/all_my_rage/gifts).



> A/N: Okay, so this is a christmas gift for my friend Tera. I love her deerly, and I hope she will enjoy this fic made just for her! Enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, BBC Sherlock, or any of the characters associated with the show or books. The currently belong to Moffat, that son of a bitch.
> 
> Note: I really took the time to go and find a song for Sherlock. I'll post a link at the end of the fic, and if you guys could go give it a listen while reading the story, I think you would quite enjoy it(:

One morning, John woke up and realized that it was December. Normally, it wouldn't have bothered him all that much, since in the army it wasn't their job to keep track of the days and they got Christmas off anyway. But, his first year out and living with Sherlock, John realized that he had a problem.

Christmas was in twenty-four days, and John had to find something for Sherlock, all while doing his best to not let the detective figure out his plan. He had his work cut out for him. 

John spent days walking the streets of London, mindlessly looking into shop windows. He had told Sherlock that the clinic gave him more hours due to the other doctors taking time off, and the shorter man was surprised when Sherlock just waved him away, keeping his ice-blue eyes on his microscope, saying, “Just grab some milk before you come back.” 

Avoiding Sherlock was easy. Finding a present was not. 

A new microscope? (but he never complained about the one he had) A new suit? (like John could afford anything he wore) A new magnifying glass? (the one he has seems important to him though) A body part from Molly? (not much of a present though. He can get them anytime). Anything John thought of didn't seem suitable for Sherlock. 

Damn him. 

John sighed, his breath forming a small cloud around his face as he pulled his coat tighter around him. He hadn't been out for very long, but it was already a week till Christmas Eve. Between working at the clinic, helping Sherlock with cases, and buying gifts for everyone else, it seemed that John was out of luck. 

He was on Chase Side (about a mile or so from Baker Street), but the shoppes there were giving him no answers. The army doctor was about to give up and go home, but a small antique shop on the corner caught his eye. It was really nothing special – the usual old-type shop you would find in London – but something inside of John told him to go in, take a look, you might even find something. 

Rubbing his ungloved hands together, John made his way across the street to the little green shop with the bright blue door. _Agatha's Antiques_ was the sign above the entrance; it looked very old, the wood slightly moldy and the paint beginning to chip. There were items for sale outside the door – an old, wooden chair; a rusty bird cage; a door from the Victorian era; random baskets. Usual things for an antique shop. 

John pushed the door open, a little bell ringing above his head. The inside was so very cluttered, the short man was sure it would be just his luck that he would break the most expensive thing for sale. To his right, sitting behind a counter that must have come from the American old-west, sat a very elderly lady with thick reading glasses half the size of her face and some sort of book in her hands. She glanced up at John and nodded, but otherwise ignored him and kept on reading. 

Still not really sure why he was in there, John began to move stiffly through the shop. It wasn't organized at all – where ever something fit, it would go there. Book shelves and glass cases were piled full of odd nick-naks and their prices ranged from a few pence to thousands of pounds. 

John did his best to keep away from the expensive stuff. 

After what felt like forever, poor John was about to give up – seeing as he had reached the back of the shop – when something inside of a Victorian suitcase caught his eye. 

Buried beneath a girls white dress from the 50's and a pair of snakeskin boots from the 80's, John uncovered old, tanned, and stained violin sheet music, titled _Last Rose of Summer._ In the margins, written in pencil and cursive, were some notes someone made years ago. The first page had an awkward crease on the bottom-right corner, while the second page had a rather large tea-stain almost right in the centre. The last two pages, aside from being tanned with age, were almost perfect. 

John didn't know much about music; could not read it, could not play a single instrument, and didn't really see the need to. He was now regretting that life choice. 

With a sigh, the short man collected all four of the pages and began the slow process of making his way back to the front of the shop. If violin sheet-music wasn't a good gift for Sherlock Holmes, then John Watson didn't know what was. 

**[][]**

Where in the world did he get off going Christmas shopping? How boring. 

Sherlock leaned back from his experiment under the microscope, staring at the place John had just been standing in. Even Anderson could have figured out that the doctor was going out gift-shopping – it was so obvious. He was nervous, it was December, it was the third time this week – mundane, easy to conclude. 

It made Sherlock nervous. 

Why on earth would John feel the need to get him a gift? Did flatmates usually do something like that? Did John expect Sherlock to get him something in return? Sherlock scoffed to himself, returning his face to the microscope. Of course he wouldn't get anything for John – he didn't _do_ Christmas. 

Mycroft used to call him Ebenezer. The kids at school called him Satan. 

It's not as though he _hated_ Christmas; no, he just didn't really see the need to buy useless things for people he didn't much care for. Sherlock used to buy small trinkets for Mummy (usually Victorian era jewelery and pill boxes), but she was the only person – may he dare say – cared for. 

Sherlock turned the knobs on the side of his microscope as he scowled. Did he care for John? Well, it would be bothersome if John died, and the younger Holmes did lie to Lestrade about who really shot the cabbie (even though he was sure Greg figured it out on his own later and just pretended to not know). 

John was also the only person to come at his every beck and call. No matter what, the shorter man always listened to everything Sherlock had to say, and almost never asked questions. When questions were asked, it's merely to explain further as to what Sherlock is talking about. The doctor was the only person in the world who put up with everything the taller man did – right down to the possibly illegal rhino-tusk Sherlock kept under his bed for a past experiment that he never finished, though Sherlock wasn't positive if John knew about that or not. 

It was obvious. John cared about Sherlock. Cared enough to get gifts for, anyway. 

Sherlock pushed away from his work and scratched his head. Did he care for John? Obviously. And now that his flatmate was out looking for a gift for him, Sherlock couldn't just stand by and not get something for John. It would make John sad. The thought of John being sad made Sherlock feel something not-so-nice. He would examine that feeling later. 

Standing up quickly, Sherlock grabbed his trusty coat and purple scarf before heading out the door. Seven days until Christmas meant only seven days for the taller man to find something suitable for John. 

[][] 

Five more days left till Christmas and Sherlock had no luck in finding anything satisfactory for John. 

It was obvious that John had finally gotten his flatmate a gift already (“Really Sherlock, flu season has started to die down. No need for me to go in as often now.”), and it was beginning to annoy Sherlock that he himself could not find a single thing for his friend. 

Money was no object – he had more money than John knew. Theoretically, he could get the doctor almost anything in the world and not even bat an eye about it. The problem, however, was _what_ to get him. 

A coat had come to mind, but was quickly dismissed – John already had a nice coat. A new gun was also an option, but the paperwork to make it legal was so horridly boring, Sherlock didn't think he could do it. A scarf? Too normal, if not a bit too romantic for flatmates. Gloves? Hardly a gift. A dangerous case that would surely make John's adrenaline go through the roof? Seemed more like a gift made for Sherlock. A new tea-cup seemed like a plausible idea, but everything in the shoppes were so, _Christmas-y,_ finding a normal one would be too much trouble. 

“Sherlock?” John said, pulling his friend out of his thoughts. Sherlock didn't say a thing, keeping his eyes fixated on the ceiling. John sighed. 

“Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson invited us to supper. I'm going down to eat now. Would you like me to bring you any?” 

Silence. John sighed again. 

“Right, well – be back later, then.” 

John left the flat not very quietly. Sherlock stayed laying on the sofa, his thoughts about cold-cases and his flatmate keeping his mind busy. John had been gone for only ten minutes before Sherlock could hear his heavy steps coming back up to 221B. This time, Sherlock looked up. 

A very angry John burst through the door. Sherlock could tell that his friend was doing his best to keep his anger under control, but it was not working very well. A large, fresh, brown stain donned the front of Johns favourite tan jumper. The shorter man quickly lifted said jumper over his head, cursing under his breath as he ran over to the kitchen sink and turned on the hot water, holding his jumper under it. Sherlock watched John's back, which was half-covered by a white tank-top and a permanent tan from the Middle Eastern sun. Sherlock caught a glimpse of the scar on John's left shoulder – something the ex-solider had never talked about, and the consulting detective wasn't going to say anything about it either. 

“Dammit!” John yelled from the kitchen, slamming his hands down on the counter. The water was still running, but he was no longer scrubbing at his beloved jumper. Sherlock rose from the couch, pretending to busy himself with a cuppa next to John. 

“I hadn't meant to startle Mrs. Hudson – I was only trying to help!” John said more to himself than to Sherlock. “Now my favourite jumper – dammit it all.” With one swift movement, John threw the soaking wet jumper into the rubbish bin and stomped up to his own bedroom, muttering curses the whole way. 

Sherlock smiled to himself, drinking his tea. 

**[][]**

A soft grey glow filled the flat as John tiredly came downstairs for his morning cuppa. It was Christmas morning, so he really didn't have a need to be up this early, but he just couldn't sleep anymore. To be honest, he was slightly nervous about giving his gift to Sherlock (which he had left under their small tree last night, hoping to any god listening that his flatmate would open it without John having to be there for it). It would be quite embarrassing if Sherlock hadn't gotten him anything in return. There was enough talk about the two of them already, why add fire to the flame? 

“Merry Christmas, John.” 

John nearly dropped his mug. He turned and looked into the living room. Sherlock was standing in front of the window, his arms behind his back. The taller man was smiling, but John couldn't tell if it was the fake one he gave to Lestrade, or if it was genuine. He'd go with fake, for now. 

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock. There's a gift for you under the tree. I guess Santa thought you had been good enough this year, eh?” John said, trying to keep his tone light. Once he finished making his tea, John joined Sherlock in the living room, taking a seat in his usual chair. Sherlock kept standing. 

“Yes, yes, I already found the gift. I wanted to give you this before opening it, though.” 

With one swift movement, Sherlock brought his hand forward from behind his back and strode toward John, standing right in front of him. A very poorly wrapped gift was in one, pale hand. It was as if Sherlock had tried to make some sort of bag out of reindeer wrapping paper, and once he figured out it wouldn't work, he tried to patch up the holes by using some Santa wrapping paper that didn't match at all. The large, gold bow on top certainly didn't make it look any better. 

John thought it was lovely. 

Slightly taken aback, John hesitantly took the gift from Sherlock, their fingers brushing for a brief moment. Sherlock recoiled once John had his present, going back to his post by the window, still facing the shorter man. He crossed his arms and tried to look indifferent. 

Glancing up and not saying another word, John did his best to carefully unwrap his gift. However, an over-abundance of sello-tape made this task quite difficult, so the shorter man resorted to just tearing into his present like a child on Christmas morning opening their first gift. Sherlock stood completely still, his eyes never leaving John's face. 

Removing the last bit of paper, John gasped. Inside, folded in a perfect square, was a dark purple jumper. John looked up at Sherlock, his mouth hanging wide open. Besides biting his bottom lip, his flatmate kept a blank face, his hands shoved into the pockets of his bed robe. Returning his gaze to the jumper, John carefully picked it up in his hands, not sure if he was still dreaming or not. The fabric was so soft – the softest wool that money could buy – somehow soft and warm and not itchy all at the same time. John wanted to laugh, childishly cry, and hug Sherlock all at the same time. He settled for a smile. 

“Sherlock, did you get this for me because I ruined my favourite jumper?” John asked, his smile widening as he fixed his eyes on Sherlock's. 

Sherlock scoffed. “I haven't the faintest clue what you're talking about. You're welcome.” 

John laughed again, his heart feeling very light. He pointed at the nicely-wrapped gift still under their small tree. “I think Santa left a gift for you, too, Sherlock.” 

Rolling his eyes, the taller man bent over and picked up his gift. It was simple – wrapped in shiny gold paper with red and green ribbon – and it made John proud that Sherlock seemed slightly confused at the shape. He looked at John, but John simple shrugged his shoulders. With a huff, Sherlock sat down in the chair opposite of John and began to open his gift carefully. The doctor held his breath as the detective slowly pulled the old music sheets out of their wrapping. 

Without warning, the younger man jumped up from his seat, startling John. Sherlock stopped right in front of John, bending down so that his face was level with John's. The pale man reached forward and gripped the shorter man's shoulders tightly. It was the closest thing to a hug he would ever get from Sherlock. 

What surprised John the most, though, was that Sherlock was smiling. Not a fake smile, not a smile for Lestrade or Sally; but a real, genuine smile that made John's heart shudder and his own lips curl up. John reached up and patted Sherlock's arm. “I'm very glad you like it, Sherlock.” 

“Like it? I love it, John!” Sherlock exclaimed as he leaned forward and pecked John on the lips. 

John's brain stuttered, but before he could even asses the situation, Sherlock was letting go of his arms and his lips were gone, leaving him breathless. 

Sherlock strode over to the fireplace, picking up his violin. Setting the music sheets on the window sill, he began to play. John sat and listened, his eyes locked onto Sherlock's shoulders the entire time. 

The song wasn't terribly long, and John wished it never had to end. Being able to actually hear the music was certainly a treat, and much more rewarding than failing to read the music on the paper. Everything about this piece fit Sherlock – the erratic high-pitches; the slow, romantic melody; the pauses before the grand finale. It was a song tailored to Sherlock, and no one else could play it as wonderfully. 

The end came too soon for John. Sherlock turned around, dropping his violin from his shoulder. “How was it, John?” 

John looked at Sherlock and tried his best to commit this image to memory – Sherlock's messy hair, his half-on bed-robe, his violin relaxed at his side. But most of all, John wanted to remember that satisfied look in Sherlock's eyes. 

“It – you were lovely. Just wonderful. Would you mind playing again?” 

Sherlock smiled as he raised his beloved violin back on his shoulder. “Anything you say, doctor.” 


End file.
